


An Analysis Of Codesperation

by LimpBiskit



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LimpBiskit/pseuds/LimpBiskit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visit my archive for fic, media and more. http://asshat.0fees.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Analysis Of Codesperation

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**  
|    
[complete](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/complete), [fanfic](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [rated:nc17](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/rated%3Anc17), [sherlock](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock)  
  
---|---  
  
Title: An Analysis Of Codesperation  
Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: NC17  
Warnings: Angst, Imagery, Cursing, Slash (finally!)

  
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It all seemed so ridiculous, now.

The careful distance, the attention diverted with thoughts of _can't_ and _shouldn't_ , and his very own personal favorite, _how.._

And oh yes, he had certainly spent enough time on thoughts of how-

How the man's skin would feel, under his hands as he sprawled artlessly across the dark surface of his duvet-

How would it be, to press his lips to the other's and simply _lose_ himself in the measured cling and slide of windchapped flesh and quick, shallow breaths-

How sweet would the taste of him be, if he only but dared to scribe his name along the sensitive stretch of inner thigh or lower back-

Yes, more than enough time spent wondering.

But he had settled for less, storing the bits and pieces of fufillment into some sort of makeshift catalogue that both bolstered and strained his limits to something nigh-transparent-

The accidental stroke of fingers over his palm when exchanging items between them-

Occasional moments of euphoria when Death had once again missed its mark, leaving them crumpled against each other in breathless laughter-

Even a purely coincidental brush of contact when spaces entered proved too small for the easy placement of two fully-grown bodies-

All of these were hated and cherished in turn, when the moments passed and he _knew_ without doubt that there would be no forgetting, only reminder after reminder that he called this torture down upon himself when a sane man would have resigned himself to despair long ago.

And yet he remained, unwilling, or perhaps even unable, to diffuse the situation, to alter the status quo with a single word or gesture left open for interpretation, some telling sign of his ever-growing madness that would spell out the truths he hid so well-

But he _was_ mad, consumed and fixated upon the very source of his impossible want until it permeated his life to its very core, a thing already so twisted and worry-worn that he sometimes wondered if _this_ was the way it would end, the other man ever unknowing as he burned himself into nothingness for only one more instant of cleaving to the flame that burned so painfully bright behind those eyes..

And he hated it, hated himself for his hidden treachery when he sought out the instants he so craved, but he was helpless, powerless to stop it when any second could be the last, _their_ last-

He had never seriously considered it, the end of a life well-spent, he had always believed that such an end would be something worthy of merit and not in the least a thing to fear..

How he dreaded and feared it now, unreasoning and blindly as a child fears the darkness at the edges of his own play-yard, the one he adored and coveted could simply _cease_ and never be again-

Yes, yes, madness most foul.

And love also.

That alone was the epitome of his wonderings, how could he love so much and still hold his silence, keep his closest companion deluded and innocent of the carnal bent of his mind when they were so very close..

And then there was the Revelation, a thing so much above a titled chapter in some religious work of literary flight of fancy.

He had _known_ , damn him for his secreted cleverness and discretion, the little fool had waited and wondered if there would ever be a time for them, for the things **he** stored away inside his own, unique reliquery of _how_ -

Damn him, and Bless him too, because he had never, _never_ betrayed the trust they kept, leaving the man to his thoughts and wants until they _had_ slipped free of his grasp like handfulls of sand gripped too tight, and there was so much they shared-

John tasted of Heaven, of Damnation and want and innumerable other things that they would have a lifetime to define and explore.. He laughed at the stroke of a tongue that followed the sharp angle of both ribs and collarbone, laughed through shivering moans and half-hearted struggles that both understood to be completely meaningless.

His hands were a divinity unto themselves, seeking out the places that most yearned for their touch, the press of nails and pads of the fingers.. And there was no hesitation, no worry of things unwanted or unasked, not then his murmured litany of _'Brilliant, perfect, delicious'_ left the world's only Consulting Detective at a loss for the first time he could recall, spoken in stolen gasps of air that were shared between them when mouths chanced to part-

He thought he could have died, heart burst at the seams from within by the force of emotions unfurling when words of praise became disjointed cries and declarations of long-shared affection, the stimulation of mind and body coupled so closely that neither could say what spurred them over the edge of reason.

And it didn't matter, not when they fell together into something completely physical, searing wetness and the shaken cling of muscles that all but seized in response to a movement that was angled _just so_ and a single gasped plea for an ending they both wanted-

Oh, yes, how ridiculous it all seemed, when there was no distance, no diversion to be had and none possible.. There was only the gradual slowing of breath, the relaxing of legs that still yet shivered at the slide of forearms along the back of bent knees and lingering kisses that may or may not have missed their mark in the lazy aftereffect of spent passion..

And that didn't matter either, when the things that _were_ important matched up perfectly.

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Well, that's that. And no, I hope that ISN'T the limit of my slashwriting. Until next time, enjoy!  



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